


Eurydice

by WinryWeiss



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Post-Hiatus, Supernatural - Freeform, case fic of a sort, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinryWeiss/pseuds/WinryWeiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in grave peril, Watson gets rather unexpected help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eurydice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for WatsonWoes challenge 26 (ghost story). 
> 
> Many thanks to thesmallhobbit for beta-reading and Brit-pick. Bless her patience.

Outside is a merry world.

A clattering of cabs, neighs of horses, barking of dogs, prattling of people, happy shouts and joyful exclamations, even the occasional cries of birds carries to here.

Inside here...

Nothing but darkness.

Blinding darkness – a perfect cover for a villain, hiding him and his blades like an invisible scabbard. Wilkins the Cutthroat, Wilkins and his two silvery razors, Wilkins the Terror of the Waterfront.

A ruthless murderer. Lurking in the darkness for his prey.

Oh Lord. Not good. Not good at all.

Pursuing Wilkins into this abandoned warehouse was not exactly the very best of ideas.

And yet I followed Holmes without a single word of protest.

Bearing in mind those unfortunate seventeen souls, victims of Wilkins with their throats sliced open from behind. Remembering very clearly, the sight forever burned deep inside my memory, how _downhearted_ Lestrade looked, standing above the lifeless body of constable Harrison, silhouette reflected in the puddle of still fresh blood, after the last failed arrest attempt.

Friendly and kind Charles Harrison whose wife was expecting their first child.

Even Holmes felt the thirst for blood, the need for revenge reverberating thorough the Yard.

It was not a problem for him to track Wilkins down again, that butcher not even having enough decency to actually hide. So we watched from the shadows of incoming night, echoing his every step through the winding back streets alongside the Thames until we ended up in here.

A desolate warehouse with its windows nailed shut, a secluded two-storey building on the riverbank still within the hearing distance of streets full of life, with the Yard’s reinforcement delayed, a mad murderer _aware of us_ on a killing spree, and separated ... what else can go wrong?

Or better asked, what had not yet gone wrong?

Right now, the darkness is the worst enemy. I barely perceive the outlines of the feeble furnishing in here, so my trustworthy service revolver is completely useless. Yet I still hold on to it firmly, my charm against the evil, the tool of protection of my friend.

My friend, my dearest friend...

I exhale through my nostrils, forcing away the maddening panic which threatens to overwhelm me. I am terrified. No use ignoring it. I am more terrified than during the Battle of Maiwand which cost me my health. Oddly enough I do not care in the slightest for my own safety. All which matters is Holmes wellbeing.

I have to admit that ever since his return I am perhaps a little ... overprotective.

It is sort of irritating, disturbing and bothersome, but I cannot help myself. I desperately pray that he will not notice this attitude of mine, except ... he hardly misses anything.

But Lord, I was so lonely after Mary ... after she... 

And when he proposed to me to move back...

I could not afford losing him again. Not again. Never again.

Yet, he tends to be _so_ reckless.

I realize that my hands are shaking. Perhaps I had better hide my revolver, or I’ll pull the trigger accidentally. No matter how hard I try to breathe calmly, it seems like there is not enough air left and my every disjointed exhale is a trembling sound, resonating in the unnerving silence of the empty room like a high-pitched desperate scream.

Not good. Not good at all.

I try to move towards where I expect the wall to be, but I stumble and fall. Due to my strong self-preservation instinct, polished to perfection during years of accompanying Holmes, I swallow the surprised cry rising from my throat and curl somewhat to cushion my downfall. The force of the impact knocks both my revolver and my walking stick from my hands. The solid, rare wood cane, a gift from Holmes for my betrothal, clatters away in the darkness.

So much noise.

So clumsy.

I am such a clumsy wretch. Useless. Aren’t I useless? I cannot protect Holmes. I couldn't do anything for those poor seventeen fellows, I couldn't help Constable Harrison.

I couldn't even save Mary.

Frozen, I hold my breath and listen in the deafening silence that arises after my tumble for the triumphant shout of Wilkins, for that sickening snicker of his, for the tinkling sound of his silvery razors unsheathing, but nothing comes.

Only the sound of my ragged breathing in the darkness.

And then ... a presence.

I don’t know how I can tell, how have I become aware of somebody near me, call it old warrior instinct, call it superstitiousness, but that feeling has saved my life more than once. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, a creeping sensation constricts my lungs, freezes the blood in my veins and for a while, which seems like a whole eternity, stops my heart. I sense my fingers going numb from cold.

Cold, so cold. 

Despite the late summer, the room is suddenly so chilly that my breath crystallises in white crispy clouds which tingle my face, bristle my moustache.

“Holmes?” I breathe out longingly, a barely audible whisper, yet to my ears it sounds needlessly loud and desperate.

The presence draws closer.

Rise up, I have to rise up. I try, but my crippled leg protests, searing pain from the newest injury shooting through it and this time I’m unable to swallow down a pained cry.

I sense a hand resting on my good shoulder, supporting me and at the same time wordlessly asking whether I am all right, the touch caressing, loving, sending warmth to my very heart. Hope swells in my throat and tears burn beneath my eyelids.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

I _sense_ , not hear nor see, a rejecting shake of a head, gentle fingers caressing my shoulder.

That movement reminds me of Mary, of her affectionate encouragement, of the way she consoled me, of her soothing after I returned alone and broken from Switzerland, from the Falls whose roaring still dominates my nightmares.

I scramble up to my feet, revolver safely tucked in the pocket of my coat, but the precious walking stick beyond my reach, very likely lost forever. “What now?” I ask the darkness.

The hand leaves my shoulder and bids me to follow.

The wooden boards beneath my feet creak in protest with every insecure step I take. But my companion moves silently, almost like a ghost.

Odd. Isn’t it odd that I am able to perceive the outlines of furniture and remnants of crates and various junk accumulated in here over time, but not the outline of my guide? Isn’t it odd that I am unable to hear his breathing?

I know Holmes can dissipate in darkness at will, like the Cheshire Cat, but...

I feel like Orpheus leading Eurydice back from the Underworld, forbidden from looking at her to see whether she is safe and sound, whether she still follows. It doesn’t matter that it is the other way around this time, that it is Eurydice, invisible and enigmatic presence in the darkness, who is guiding us both towards safety.

Something ... something is _wrong_.

Suddenly we halt, the hand now on my chest, right above my frantically beating heart. _Danger_ , scream my senses and I know I have to be motionless and quiet, that my life depends on this. My Eurydice moves closer, I can tell now with a deadly certainty that it is not Holmes, the physique is different, shorter and petite, hairs ticking my face, and...

The fragrance of lilies of the valley...

 _Mary_.

But how? How? How could it...? How could such a thing...?

Impossible, it is impossible, it could not be, simply could not be...

Pale moonlight finds its way through clouds and boarded up windows, two silvery razor blades grimly gleaming in the darkness, scarcely a few inches away from me.

My breath catches in my throat.

Mary’s fingers atop my lips silence me, her shush a mere whisper of the wind.

Wilkins sneaks around, away from me, thank Lord, _away from me_ , unaware of my location, but with clear intention of finding me.

_All will be well, John._

That inaudible whisper of hers drowns out the awful screech of wooden floorboards collapsing underneath Wilkins and even his terrified outcry. 

Once again, the silence is deafening. 

“WATSON!” Holmes’ voice coming from downstairs sounds agitated, I would not hesitate to call it _disturbed_ , something which I would have never expected to hear. He has found a lantern somewhere in there and he looks like a will-o'-the-wisp, hastening towards the pile of rubble accompanied by a wavering circle of bright light, labelling him as a perfect target for anyone with evil intentions lurking in the dark.

I call to him weakly, not trusting my own voice. He stops short, his head jerking up towards the sound of my calling. Upon seeing me through the gaping hole in the floor he exhales with relief, all the tension flooding out of his body at once.

The light from the lantern illuminates Wilkins, all broken and unnatural angles, one of his razors still clutched tightly in his hand, the other lost.

“Oh, Watson.” It is a mere mute movement of his lips, sharply contoured by the bright light of lantern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I nod. “Yes, I’m fine.” I shift my weight, wishing for nothing more than to be down there by his side. Boards beneath my feet screech and I sense how the whole floor sinks slightly. 

Mary’s warmth embraces me from behind, holding me firmly in place.

_Don’t move._

“NO! Stay...!” Holmes’ naturally pale skin is now white as snow, with a ghostly sheen in the lantern light. “...exactly where you are. Do **not** move. The floorboards are all rotten.” He disappears again, carrying the light with him. I hear his frantic steps, his hurried pace on the staircase and the rotten floorboards creaking with nasty threats.

Mary tugs my arm.

_This way._

Lunatic. I must have become a lunatic.

_All will be well._

I follow her, my brave and loyal Eurydice, with strained nerves and held breath, completely sightless, expecting the floor to give up beneath me any moment, with every single sound, now, right now...

_It is all right._

Once again, she leads me from the dark Underworld passage towards the light of the World of the living, the light of Holmes’ lantern.

“ _John_!” Heedless of the creaking flooring he rushes to me. “Itoldyounottomove.” He grips me tightly, securing me in his arms.

I return his embrace, shaken to the core and unable to sense the presence of Mary anymore.

“What on earth were you thinking?!” he utters hoarsely to my ear. “You couldn’t see a thing! You might have ended up like...” His breath catches in his throat. It is impossible to tell which one of us is shivering more. But it takes him only a moment to recover his composure. “Come, we had better leave.”

“I lost my cane.”

“I’ll get you another one. Now, lean on me.”

He practically drags me away, vehemently ignoring the flooring’s loud protests. But atop the staircase he stops and sniffs, like a hound in the middle of the hunt. “Can you smell it?”

“Smell what?”

“Perfume.”

“Perfume? Here?”

“Yes. It’s gone now, but ... I would have sworn that it was the scent of lily of the valley.”

A chill creeps up my spine. “Oh. That ...” I look away, unwilling, _unable_ to explain. My eyes catch a completely unexpected sight and I stiffen with a jolt.

Holmes follows my gaze to a rare wood walking stick leaned casually on the banister next to the descending stairs, my cane which should be, by all righteousness, lying lost somewhere in the darkness behind us.

I hear, and I’m sure he must hear it too, a barely audible tinkling of myriads of bells in the shape of lilies of the valley – my Eurydice’s farewell joyful laughter.


End file.
